


Eight Times The Avengers Helped You With Your Hair (and the one time Loki sort of did)

by Mahoroba



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic Avengers, F/M, Female Character of Color, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, Natural Hair, Self-Esteem Issues, The Avengers Are Good Bros, black hair, dreadlocks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mahoroba/pseuds/Mahoroba
Summary: The Avengers have their own ways of helping you out with your abundant, natural hair.....Sheer, self-indulgent fluff. FIGHT ME.





	1. James Buchanan Barnes

It was Maintenance Day.

For all of the (righteously so) praise that your glorious head of hair got, Maintenance Day was still, well, an all day affair. That’s if you were being kind; realistically, it took really about two days for the whole process. Typically, you blocked off a weekend to yourself in order to get it all done. And honestly, it was never a rush. You had your stacks of movies, took frequent breaks, napped while you were under the dryer. All in all, a peaceful, if not lengthy, process. You were proud of your locs, and the immense care and love you lavished on them showed. They fell in a waterfall of coiled tresses down to your waist, and swayed with every step you made.

You hadn’t really anticipated that moving into the Avengers Tower would change things that much. It was rare when everyone was around, and usually, when everyone was, it didn’t take too long for everyone to eventually break away and go to their “separate” corners to do whatever.

All that being said, you were caught by surprise to see Bucky sitting on the couch, going through your stacks of movies with curiosity. Beside the movies, you had your alligator clips, rat tail comb, and spritz bottle. An odd combination to the stack of blu rays, to be sure.

“Barnes,” you said, amiably, your hair wrapped up in your prized microfiber towel. Technically, it was a yoga mat towel, but it was the only one you’d found that was long enough to wrap all your hair in. He glanced up at you, idly taking in your baggy sweat pants and loose _Property of Star Fleet_ tank top.

“What’s with all of the movies?” He shifted his legs aside as you slid across him, taking up a spot on the opposite side of the couch.

“Well, today is Maintenance Day,” you said, your voice muffled as you leaned forward, carefully unwrapping your hair from the towel. While it was still damp, it was nowhere near as wet as it was when you’d first gotten out of the shower. “And since I’m gonna be sitting here for a while, I wanted to get caught up on my movies.”

“Haven’t you seen all of these, though?” Your movie binges were the thing of legend, even among Tony Stark. Entire weekends (and occasionally weekdays) were lost to the movies you were either catching up on, watching again, or watching for the first time.

You grinned, taking the damp towel from your hair. Shaking out your locs, you began to rake them away from your face. “Yeah – they’re mainly for background noise while I work on my hair. Half the time I can’t see them, since I start from the back.”

Bucky was watching you, his eyes interested, but cautious. Your hair wasn’t a particularly sensitive subject, but sometimes it did get tiring explaining the whole process. Still, though, if he was interested, you weren’t going to deny him.

“Start from the back?” He finally ventured, reassured by your face.

“Yep,” and you turned your back to him. Lowering your head and moving your hair up over the nape of your neck so that it fell across your face, you continued. “I start back here and work my way to the front.” Flipping your hair back over with an exaggerated grunt, you began to section it off into large braids. “And I braid it like this,” you added, not waiting for his inevitable next question, “to keep track of what I’ve done.”

“So…,” it was said with a light tongue click from him, “Okay,” he said, as if he’d decided on something. “Takes a while for one person, doesn’t it?”

“Pretty much my entire day,” you said, leaning forward to start the first of your movie selections. “I didn’t think anyone was going to be here, so that’s why I took over the living room,” you offered by way of apology. But before you could add anything else, Bucky was quick to speak.

“I can leave, if you want me to.” It was meant as a statement, but sounded more like a question. Flopping down next to him on the couch, you lightly elbowed him in the side.

“I’m not going to chase you out of here, Barnes. But I’m not going to be too much of a Chatty Cathy, if that’s what you were looking for.”

“Me, conversation?” You didn’t have to look at him to see the smirk on his face. Even though he was no longer the Winter Soldier, he was still prone to long, contemplative silences. You couldn’t begrudge him that. Between Stark, Barton, and Thor, it was a wonder that there was ever a quiet time in the Tower. “As long as you don’t mind me sitting here, I’m fine.”

“Of course not.”

“Also.”

“Mmm?” You mumbled around an alligator clip as you started to prep a loc.

“Stop calling me ‘Barnes.’ It’s Bucky.”

“Mmhmm,” and you couldn’t help the small smirk.

True to your word, you weren’t much for talking as you worked through your hair. With your back pressed into the couch, your head was bowed forward as you worked “blind,” your fingers practiced in combing through the snarls, cleaning up sections with your baby scissors and combing in the loose hairs with your rat tail comb. A couple of spritzes, a deft counterclock wise roll of your palms, an alligator clip, and you were on to the next lock. When your arms began to feel like lead weights and your neck was screaming at you, you finally took your first break, tilting your head back with a soft sigh.

Bucky was still there – his attention fixed on you. From the way he was sitting, it was clear to you that he’d been more focused on you than the movie for quite a while. Your cheeks heated, mildly, and you swallowed, thinking of the best way to play it off. Before you could come up with a snarky quip, he spread his legs and gestured to the floor between them.

“Hey. Come sit here.”

You looked at where he was pointing, his spread legs, then his face, incredulously. Yeah, he may have been from the 1940s, but some things were _quite_ universal. Part of you wanted to squeal with girlish delight that Barnes would show _that_ kind of interest in you, and the other wanted to be insulted. The very small voice of logic in your head tried to chime in and say what was about to happen was probably none of the above, but where was the fun in that?

Your face must have given you away, for Bucky flashed you that lady-killer smirk. “Get your mind out of the gutter. Come here. Let me do that.”

“Do what?”

He waved his hand at your hair. “That.”

You snorted, but despite yourself, you got off of the couch. Settling down between his legs, you pushed the small coffee table away from you, allowing you enough room to get comfortable. Bucky’s thighs were warm on either side of your shoulder, and you had to fight the urge to lean back into him. The simple act of sitting with him like this was nostalgic and comforting – reminding you of the years back home with your family, or sleepovers with your girlfriends when you were a kid and hot irons were the thing (and yes, you had forgiven Shanice for nearly burning off your eyebrows when she wanted to crimp your bangs).

“You sure you’re up for this? Or know what you’re doing?” you finally said, angling to look back up into his face. He wasn’t looking at you. He was looking at a few coils of hair that he had looped in his natural hand, winding them about his wrist in wonderment. The gesture was gentle; you could barely feel as he looped more about his wrist, playing with them before letting them slowly fall from his hand.

Was he trying to kill you?

“…Your hair really is beautiful. I’ve been meaning to tell you that for a while. It moves like water.”

Okay, yes, he WAS trying to kill you.

You focused on how fascinating your knees had suddenly become.

Your face burning, you stammered, “Thank you…it’s a lot of work,” you added, with a nervous chuckle, hoping to diffuse the situation. Whatever the situation was.

“I can tell,” he murmured, leaning over you now to grab your comb from the table. “But I bet it’ll be a lot easier with someone else helping.”

“…You sure you know what you’re doing?”

“Piece ‘o cake. I’ve been watching you – plus I picked up a few things in Wakanda.”

The mental image of Bucky, dressed in Wakandaian garb, doing a little girl’s hair up in afro puffs flashed through your mind, and you snorted, trying to mask the explosion of your ovaries.

“…All right, then, Barnes. You mess up and I’ll kill you.”

He laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought of this plot bunny while I was working on my own locs. Yes I am being self-indulgent and a little ridiculous, BUT I AM LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT.


	2. Tony Stark

“You could totally be Lady Godiva.” He framed the curves of your body with his hand. “Lady Godiva with Hulk-lite strength. If there’s a papa Hulk, a Mama Hulk, you’re the baby Hulk. Except that would be gross, because then that’d mean you’d be inbred.” Tony gestured at you, a martini glass in hand.

 

“Mmmhmm.” You were pulling your hair over your shoulder, wringing it out. Clad in your (favorite color) swimsuit, you weren’t entirely sure if Tony was either trying to hit on you, sober, or was being honest. More than likely, it’d be a weird combination of all three. Tony was gonna be Tony.

 

“Hey,” he said, with a slight grunt. Oh, he was drunk.

 

“What?” You continued to wring your hair out, focusing on how the water slipped between your fingers.

 

“Lemme.”

 

“Wring out my hair? Tony, please. You’re drunk.”

 

“First of all, no, I will not wring out your hair like some old-timey laundry lady, and second, I am pleasantly buzzed. Like, lemme braid your hair or something. It’s got to get in the way when you swim, right?”

 

You sighed. Better to yell at a brick wall then to try and convince a “not-drunk” Tony Stark not to do something.

 

“…Fine.” You shifted in your lounge chair, turning your back to him. “Do you even know how to braid?”

 

“Uh, yeah. How hard can it be?”

 

He was clambering onto the lounge chair behind you, his chest bumping into your back. You leaned forward, and he grumbled, trying to hold his drink steady.

 

“You good?” you asked, after what felt like an eternity of him banging and knocking around behind you.

 

“Yeah, hold onto your bikini top, Power Girl.”

 

“God, Tony - don’t call me that. That’s not my name.”

 

“But it suits you, Miss I-Can-Punch-Through-A-Wall-And-Fly.”

 

“I didn’t ask for these powers.” His hands were warmer than the sun against your shoulders. Slowly, he lifted a chunk of hair away from your shoulders.

 

“No wonder you have super powers. This is incredibly heavy. Like my armor heavy. Hey. There’s an idea - I tinker with your hair. Make it lighter. Better.”

 

“My hair is fine. Are you gonna braid it, or are you going to keep buzzing in my ear?”

 

“What did I say about keeping your bikini top on? Although,” and he delicately plucked at the strings about your neck, “I don’t think anyone would complain if you were, say, to strategically lose it.”

 

“Stark.”

 

“You never let me have any fun. Here, hold my drink.” He shoved his half-full martini into your hand - narrowly avoiding dropping it on the ground.

 

“Hey!” you yelped, as the martini sloshed over your bare legs. “Gross.”

 

“Hush. Man on a mission here. I need absolute quiet.”

 

Rolling your eyes, you buttoned your lip, and let the man “work.” It must have been too quiet, because the next thing you knew, Tony’s had stilled, and his chest was pressed heavily against your back. Craning slightly to see behind you, you were greeted with the sight of Tony Stark, knocked out against your back, your hair done in the nicest fishtail braid that you’d ever had the honor of wearing.

 

With a heavy sigh, you rolled your eyes upward, not bothering to fight the grin. “Thanks, Tony.”


	3. Clint Barton

“What did you do to your hair?!” It was a surprised gasp, in the tone of someone who has belatedly realized that maybe they should have kept their mouth _shut_ instead of blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

 

“I,” you stressed, tugging down on the lat pull down bar harder than you meant to, “did nothing to it. Loki cut it.”

 

Still fumbling over the fact that maybe he shouldn’t have blurted out what he just did, Clint cleared his throat in an odd cough.

 

“That’s um…not like him?” He was fumbling now, both literally and figuratively. His last arrow failed to hit the mark – a quarter of an inch off, impressive by any means, but a massive fumble by Hawkeye.

 

“Eh.” You continued to stare ahead, mentally counting your reps. The urge to murder Loki had faded over the past few weeks, and, as much as you hated to admit it, there were benefits to the shorter hair. Not drowning was chief among them.

 

 _Now you can see that face,_ he’d said, his chill palms caressing your cheeks. _I don’t know why you’ve hidden it away for so long._

 

Your cheeks flushed as you pulled the bar down a final time, feeling the protest in your upper back. You were going to feel it tomorrow, you knew it, but it’d be worth it.

 

“At the time, it seemed the best course of action.” You were standing now, slowly letting the bar go as the weights eased down. “I was going to drown,” you said, flatly. “Hair got caught up in debris under the water and I couldn’t see well enough to get free. Loki hacked it all off.”

 

Two feet of hair gone in the flash of a dagger. The same hair that’d snapped scissors in prior attempts to cut it. At the time, you’d been too caught up in coughing up water to wonder what in the hell had happened that you were suddenly, blissfully free.

 

“Well, uh…” Barton was fumbling again, this time, fiddling an arrow between his fingers. “It…looks nice.”

 

“What?” You squinted at him, raising an eyebrow. Now, it was apparently Clint’s turn to look a little put out.

 

“It looks nice. I bet it’s a lot lighter, right? Better maneuverability.” As if realizing that he was on a successful path to complimenting you, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully, before stepping over to stand in front of you. “Plus you can see your face.”

 

He had a point.

 

Wait, what about your face?

 

“…You’re the second person to say that,” you said, rubbing the back of your now bare neck.

 

“Was it really that bad?”

 

“You had a lot of hair,” he offered, with a nonchalant shrug. He was putting his arrows back into his quiver. Apparently practice was over before it’d really begun. “It was pretty cool as long as it was, but this looks better on you.”

 

“I didn’t think you’d noticed my hair, Barton,” you quipped, reaching for a towel.

 

“Hey, I notice a lot of things about you,” he petulantly said. “Your hair was just one of the first things.”

 

“You notice a lot of things about me, do you?” You leered playfully at him. “Do tell.”

 

The look on his face made it all too clear that he realized he was fighting a losing battle. Clearing his throat again, he notched an arrow, and drew his arm back. The gesture was fluid, the muscles in his forearms and biceps cording enticingly. He let the arrow fly.

 

Perfect bullseye.

 

“I notice a lot of things,” he said, with a smirk. “Got those kind of eyes.”


	4. Loki

You were caught.

 

Struggling, you reminded yourself that you had to calm down; the more you thrashed, the more you’d burn up precious oxygen. Closing your eyes (though it didn’t make that much of a difference in the inky water), you felt around you. Debris littered the bed of the lake (thankfully, fresh water made it possible for you to even open your eyes to begin with), and the dull light of the sun was faint above you. Okay. So now you knew which way was up, and where you were.

 

Relatively.

 

But what had you snagged?

 

Your hands (both of them could move; excellent!) felt blindly around you, and you kicked, trying to move up. As soon as you did, you could feel the painful tug of your hair. Something was on your hair. Twisting around, the hair that was free billowed around you like a living thing, further obscuring your vision. Reaching forward blindly, you felt hard edges. Running your hands along it, you realized with dismay that a chunk of the building had fallen on your hair, effectively trapping you.

 

Reaching for your side, a flash of panic cut through you. Your knife, the one that you ALWAYS carried on missions, was no longer there. It must’ve shaken loose during the impact. With a flash of annoyance, you made a mental note – _if_ you got out of this, you were going to have Stark redesign your suit.

 

There had to be something that you could wedge under it. And of course there wasn’t. Forcing yourself down to the silty lake bed, you struggled to wiggle your fingers under the block. If you could just get a good grip, you could use your formidable strength to push it off. Ah, there it was! As you prepared yourself to lift it, your feet slipped, and you lost what precious breath you had left in a stream of silver bubbles. You fought against the instinct to inhale, and icy fear clutched your chest.

 

_This is it, isn’t it?_

 

Out of all of the ways that you saw yourself meeting your end as an Avenger, “Trapped underwater by glorious hair” wasn’t one of them. Before your vision went entirely black, you couldn’t stop yourself from smirking. What a way to go. At least the mission was successful.

 

 

 

 

Someone’s mouth was cool against yours, breathing for you. Hands pushed down on your sternum. The touch of those chill lips again, and you were brought fully back to the land of the living, hacking and sputtering as you turned to your side.

 

“The next time that you go for a swim, might I suggest tying back your hair?”

 

Sunlight, blinding white, seared your eyes, and you closed them again, lost in the red of your closed eyelids.

 

“…Loki,” you coughed out, “what happened?”

 

“Why, I saved your life,” he sniffed, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Even to me, it would be a poor end for you to be done in by your hair.”

 

“Got…caught…” speaking was becoming a little easier as water was cleared from your throat. “Hair…”

 

“About that…” His face, insomuch as a trickster could look rueful, spoke volumes. “You’re going to be angry at me, but it was a small price to pay.”

 

“What...?” You bolted up – easily. _Way_ too easily. You reached up – and your hair was gone.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. You still had hair on your head, yes. But it wasn’t even to your shoulders. It would be a kindness to say that it was even to your ears.

 

Gasping, in shock, you grasped the air where your hair had been. All of that hair. All of that work. Your pride and joy for close to two decades, _gone_ , just like that. Tears, hotter than the water still on your face, pooled in your eyes.

 

“…You could have done anything else, could have magicked the rock away, could have magicked us out of there! Why did you do it?!” You struggled to your feet, but the sudden motion made your head spin. Staggering forward, you nearly collapsed, if it were not for Loki catching you. He tutted at you, holding you out at arm’s length to make sure that you were steady again. You were crying in earnest now, unable to stop yourself. The logic in your brain chided you for being so childish – your hair was a small price for your life-, but your emotions were running wild.

 

“I did what I thought was most expedient to saving your life, (name),” and his voice held none of his typical condescending mockery. “Magic would have taken time that I sorely did not have. You were not conscious by the time I got to you, and had stopped breathing by the time I got you out of the water. Or did you think I was performing CPR out of a sudden inborn desire to kiss you?”

 

Embarrassed, you shoved him away – an action that you instantly regretted. Staggering, you fell backwards into the shallows. Thankfully, the water was only to your ankles here, and you simply sat where you were, legs sprawled in front of you. You were so light – every movement, even without the muddle-headedness of almost drowning, felt like walking on the moon.

 

With the sunlight behind you, you were able to take a good look at him. The normally impeccable god was bedraggled; his gold and green armor sodden from where he’d dove in after you. His hair stuck in oil slick tendrils to his face, heightening the paleness of his skin. Taking a look at you, he cocked his head this way, then that – then knelt in front of you.

 

 _“_ Now you can see that face,” he said, his chill palms caressing your cheeks. I don’t know why you’ve hidden it away for so long.”

 

Flabbergasted, you simply stared at him. His Cheshire cat grin returned. “Merely pointing out the silver lining in what must be a horrible experience for you.”

 

The feeling of his palms against your cheeks stayed for a long time after he’d removed his hands and helped you up.


	5. Natasha Romanov

You sat in your bathroom, sniffling loudly.

 

It was ridiculous, and you knew it – Loki had saved your life with minimum injury. But your hair. Your pride and glory. The only part of your body that you’ve ever felt confident in, was a mere shadow of the beauty that it once was. And the longer you sat in front of the mirror, fingering the edges, the more you felt hot tears welling in your throat, threatening to suffocate you.

 

So caught up in not trying to cry, you didn’t notice when Natasha entered your room. However, to be fair, the woman was a shadow even without distraction.

 

“How long are you going to sulk?” she asked, striding into your room like she owned the place.

 

“…I’m not sulking,” you managed, between hard sniffles, “I’m mourning.”

 

“It’s not that bad,” her tone was soothing as she moved to sit beside you. You were sitting on the toilet (lid down, of course), and she squeezed to sit on the edge of the tub. Folding her fine fingered hands in front of her, she looked up at you. “Really, it isn’t. Hair grows back.”

 

“I know,” your sniffles stilling for a moment, “I know. I know all of this, logically.”

 

Natasha gave you a searching look, not unkindly. Something in her green eyes jarred the truth loose from you, and you started to sob in earnest.

 

“Natasha, the only thing I’ve ever been complimented on in my life has been my hair. Everyone else has always said that I didn’t sound black enough, or that my body wasn’t good enough, and there was just always something wrong with me, but my hair, it was like, the only good thing about me. And now it’s gone and all that’s left is my hideous face!” You buried your hands in your face, crying so hard now that you were hiccuping.

 

Natasha watched in silence, before gently laying a hand on your heaving back.

 

“That’s ridiculous,” her voice had a sharp edge. “First of all, you have a lovely face.”

“I do not,” you bawled, though your voice was muffled.

 

“You do too,” she insisted, rubbing your back. “And I’ve seen a lot of lovely faces in my line of work. And,” her hands were warm against yours as she pulled them from your face, “your hair was short when you first started your locing process, yes?”

 

Tearfully, you nodded, sitting up. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, grimacing at the thick snot left behind. Absolutely fantastic. As if bawling like a baby wasn’t bad enough, now you had a red, burning snotty face in front of one of the most elegant, stylish, and beautiful woman you’d ever seen. Natasha’s small smile was kind, and she reached past you to pull some toilet paper from the roll. She handed it to you silently, and didn’t so much giggle when you blew your nose loudly.

 

The two of you sat there as your sniffles grew quieter.

 

“…You’re right to mourn for your hair,” she ventured, softly, “But let this be the end of it. Something new is coming from it. I know change is hard, but think of it this way: you’re alive. The mission was successful – you saved a lot of lives. And on top of that,” her smile grew clever, “Loki got dirty to save you. I never thought I would see the day. He looked just like a wet cat.”

 

A laugh sputtered through your tears. Loki _had_ looked pretty awful.

 

The next thing you knew, you were laughing outright until your sides hurt. Her laughter, precious in its rarity, joined yours.

 

When it all faded away, and you were left with a dull ache, you took a deep breath, and let it out in a long sigh.

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a child about this,” you murmured, leaning over the sink now to splash cold water on your face. “I thought I was over my image issues. I guess I’m not.”

 

“Loki may have actually done you a favor,” Natasha stood behind you in the mirror, her reflection carefully watching you. “You’ve been using your hair as a shield for as long as I’ve met you. A beautiful shield, but a shield nonetheless. Now, you have to just be you.”

 

You stood up, your eyes avoiding hers in the mirror. “…It’s hard,” you said, feeling the familiar ball of nausea churn in your stomach as you forced yourself to look at your reflection. Without the long curtain of hair, you felt off balance, your face entirely too exposed to an unkind world.

 

“Are you still (your name)? The same woman that regularly flies into battle zones without armor? The woman that has also charged into a burning building to save others? The same woman that is loyal to her friends and stands her ground? The same woman that eats all of my ice cream and replaces it with a new carton and thinks I don’t notice?”

 

You snorted at the last part. It was foolhardy to think that she wouldn’t have caught on – but to be fair, you always replaced it.

 

“…Yeah,” you snickered, just a little. “Nat, thank you. You are the best.”

 

“I know,” her green eyes held that original smile. “So,” she clicked her tongue, “Loki cut it, but he didn’t style it.”

 

“Yeah,” you fingered the edges again. Now that you were forced to take a good look at it, you were even more lost on what to do with it.

 

“Luckily, I think I might know how to fix this,” and, out of nowhere, Natasha held up a pair of scissors. “Sit.”

 

If it had been anyone else, you’d run screaming from the room. One hair trauma was enough to last a lifetime. But it wasn’t just anyone – it was Natasha, woman of a million faces and skills. With confidence, you flopped back down on the toilet seat, and swiveled towards her.

 

“Do your worst,” and your smile, for the first time that day, was free of tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...So I just saw "Infinity War" and I am devastated. So I am posting the rest of this SO WE ALL CAN FEEL BETTER. ;_;


	6. Bruce Banner

He walked past – then stopped. Then retraced his steps. Then squinted at you behind his glasses, before taking them off and rubbing his eyes.

 

“Did…didn’t you have…” he ran a hand over his hair, stopping at his waist. He sounded as confused as he looked.

 

You smiled, a little. “Yeah. Before this mission. Loki cut it, Natasha styled it.”

 

The woman…could work a pair of scissors and clippers. Deftly, she’d trimmed what Loki had cut into a bob, giving you a bit of an undershave to clean up the baby locs that couldn’t hold on.

As much as you were trying to get used to being short two feet of hair, you had to admit that she’d done a hell of a job, and the cut was cute.

 

“...Oh,” he said, relieved as he replaced his glasses. “I thought I was…you know, nevermind,” he quickly added. “I like it.”

 

“Really?” You winced a little at how hopeful you sounded.

 

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded. “Looks good.”

 

“…Thanks,” you said, feeling a little better. “I wasn’t so sure about it. Hard having my face out, you know?”

 

For the first time since you’d run into him in the hall, Bruce really looked at you.

 

“….Yeah, I know how that is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI, compliments totally count as helping.


	7. Thor Odinson

“Aye, it could have been his treachery at work,” murmured Thor as he thoughtfully took in your hair. “But I do believe my brother acted as well as he thought he could have.”

 

Two months later, and you were still trying to get used to how blasted short it was. But, well, short hair had its advantages. Like Clint said, you were lighter on your feet, and attacks that would have caught you off guard before no longer worked.

 

“Maybe so,” you rubbed the back of your neck, where the hair had been cropped short. It’d never been that short in your entire life. “Honestly, Thor, I can’t even bring myself to be that mad at him anymore. He did save my life. And hair grows back. It already has,” you said, gesturing to how your locs were now down to your jawline. A month ago, your hair was just to your ears.

 

“I am glad to hear it,” and he clapped a large hand on your shoulder. “Truthfully, this short hair does suit you better.”

 

“Let me guess,” you said, fighting the smile springing to your face, “You can see my face better, right?”

 

“Yes!” He suddenly boomed, then, realizing his volume, he lowered his voice to a more normal tone. “Not that there was anything wrong with your hair before, you were quite fair with long hair, but this makes you look more sporting.”

 

“ ‘Sporting’?” You raised an eyebrow at him, eager to watch him squirm. Realizing that he may have said something untoward, he bounced his fists against his thighs. “Yes, quite sporting, and dashing. One might even say spunky.”’

 

“…'Spunky.’”

 

Thor’s grin faltered, and panic showed in his blue eyes.

 

Unable to watch the man falter, you started laughing, and gave him a quick hug. “I know what you mean, Thor. I’m just giving you a hard time. Thank you.”

 

Relief shone on his face as he just as quickly returned the hug, turning you loose to give you an awkward thumb’s up. “It is a good look for you,” he added again, with a dual thumbs up. “I hope that you keep it this way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because "Thor: Ragnarok" Thor is my favorite Thor and this is my attempt at writing him in that vein.


	8. Steve Rogers

Sighing, you rolled your neck. The shorter hair meant that Maintenance Day was a mere shadow of what it used to be, but it was still a lot of work. But hey, you’d worked through the entire duration of the movie in front of you, and had made quite a bit of progress. Maybe about half-way there.

 

Footsteps behind you caused you to look up. “Rogers,” you said, with a slight handwave in greeting.

 

“(Last Name),” he responded, making his way over to the couch. “I’m glad I caught you – I’ve got a favor to ask.”

 

“Anything for you, Captain,” you sweetly said, batting your eyelashes at him in exaggeration. Rather than be annoyed by your gentle mockery, he smiled.

 

“Great. Do you mind if I draw you while you’re working on your hair?”

 

“Why? It’s not really all that interesting.” You were rotating your arms, one after the other, to ease the stiffness from the muscles. Still not as stiff as you would have been if your hair was as long as it used to be.

 

Steve’s face turned an uncharacteristic shade of pink, before cooling. “The movements you make with your hands are very fluid. I’ve been wanting to draw the way they move for a while, but our schedules never lined up.”

 

“ ‘Fluid’, he says,” and you patted the empty space on the couch next to you. “Well, knock yourself out. I’m taking a break for a minute, but I’ll get started once I get the feeling back in my shoulders.”

 

“Take your time.” He was folding his long legs under him, getting comfortable. “Act like I’m not here.”

 

You snorted.

 

But, funnily enough, as you fell back into the groove of working on your hair, it was all too easy to forget that he was there. He was silent – only the sound of his charcoal against the paper, or him turning the page was a reminder that he was even there.

 

As you put the last clip in place, you leaned back, stretching your arms high over head. Your neck popped in soft protest.

 

“All done?” He asked, his voice sounding a million miles away.

 

“Yup – did you get what you wanted?”

 

“I did. Come look,” he shifted the pad in lap, and unfolded his legs. Scooting over to sit next to him, he prepped the pad in his hands, looking all the world for a kid on Christmas.

 

“These were a few warm up sketches, so you can ignore them if you want to,” he said, gesturing to a few thumbnail sketches at the top of the page.

 

“Shush.” You took the pad from him, and began to peruse the drawings at your leisure. True to what he’d said, he’d drawn several studies of your hands, and you were amazed at the care that he’d taken with capturing the deftness of your movements. You’d done your hair for so long that you had no idea what it looked like to someone else, and according to what you were looking at, it apparently was some sort of intricate magic.

 

Sketches of your hands moved to profile thumbnails, the lines of your neck drawn with an elegance that made your heart ache.

 

“…I had no idea I had such a nice neck,” you murmured, resisting the urge to trace the lines with your fingers. “Or was that just artistic license?”  

 

Steve chuckled. “No ma’am; I only draw what I see. You’ve had it the whole time. Just couldn’t see it with all that hair. Now you can.” He held up his nubby charcoal pencil. Leaning back and playfully closing one eye, he traced the lines of your neck with the pencil. “The way it curves into your shoulder and then squares off into your jaw is like one of the Greek statues I used to copy. It’s beautiful.”

 

Your face was hot.

 

“…Thanks, Steve.”

 

“No, thank you,” he supplied, his grin kind. “Think I could make it into the Met one day?”

 

“You keep practicing, and one day, Rogers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm still over here dying a little. And also realizing that maybe the title is incorrect and I need to fix it (because this is clearly more than five times).


	9. Loki...Again.

“Have you grown used to your horrible face, as it were?” His voice was cool, sliding around the hallway.

 

You were bundled in a blanket burrito on the couch. It wasn’t Maintainance Day (and wouldn’t be for another week), but after this last mission, vegging on the couch was all you wanted to do. And my God, had you vegged. Empty Chinese food containers littered the table in front of you, your mission suit was in a crumpled mess on the floor, your boots haphazardly stacked next to it. Under your blanket, you were bruised, mildly bloody, and quite comfortable in just your underwear (which, to be fair, had also seen better days).

 

“Mmm,” you murmured in response, trying to ignore the trickster to focus on the TV in front of you. It was a movie you’d seen a million times before, but always found comforting.

 

“That’s not quite an answer,” and, suddenly, he was beside you, sitting outside of your blanket cocoon and eyeing the containers with a mild distaste. Too tired to be startled by his sudden appearance beside you, you simply hunkered down further in your blankets.

 

“Though I’ve never known why you’ve thought such ill about your face,” he pressed, leaning past you to pick up a container of dumplings. Finding it not as empty as he initially thought, he gave you a sideways glance, then helped himself to one. “It’s a fine face.”

 

“…Hard to feel that way about it when you’ve been told otherwise most of your life,” you mumbled, wishing that he’d either end the conversation or vanish or at least hand you the dumplings.

 

“Others are stupid. You’ve been around people enough to know that. Why would you let their words change a very obvious truth? It’s as if people kept telling you the world was flat and you believed them. Silly.” He popped another dumpling in his mouth.

 

Maybe you’d experienced a concussion on that last mission. Not only was the intractable God of Lies complimenting you, but what he was saying…made a valid sense.

 

“…I’ll be dammned,” you said, mildly amazed. “You’re right.”

 

“Just because I’m a creative truth teller does not mean that I do not tell the truth. On occasion. These are delightful. I’m taking them.” And he’d vanished as quickly as he’d come, taking the dumplings with him.

 

You huddled further under your blankets, warmth flooding your body.

 

It wouldn’t be fixed overnight, you knew that. But for once in your life, you felt like it **_could_** be fixed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end - for now!
> 
> I dunno. If you, kind readers, are interested in hearing more, let me know in the comments! 
> 
> On a side note: I'm really glad that something I wrote out of sheer self indulgence has gotten such a warm response. There are parts of this that are very personal to me, and it's honestly been quite cathartic to write fluff pieces to help me get my head on straight. I hope if any of you are going through something similar or struggle with the same issues that this can be a comfort to you as well.


End file.
